


convergence

by Fountain_Quill



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Getting Together, Kenjirou swears quite a bit, Konoha happened somehow, M/M, Pining, Taichi knows what's up, bar band, semi's in a band, they get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29669109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fountain_Quill/pseuds/Fountain_Quill
Summary: "Okay, guys, we’re going to take a quick break and we’ll be back in fifteen.”Kenjirou jolts. That isn’t the voice of the lead. Not by a long shot. This particular voice evokes memories of long-winded lectures, begrudging smiles given behind water bottles, and one never-again-mentioned bus ride that had Kenjirou dozing off in the lap of someone who was most certainly not Taichi.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou (background), Semi Eita/Shirabu Kenjirou
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	convergence

—

  
“I don’t drink.”

Konoha scoffs as he collapses against the worn arm of the common room couch and braces a foot against the table in the center. “ _As if_. I saw you at that party last month. For a pre-med student, you probably could have guessed the results of that many drinks on an empty stomach, no experiment required.”

Taichi bobs his head once in agreement from the chair beside Konoha, not lifting his eyes from where he’s tapping out a message on his phone. “It was impressive. Who would have guessed that someone your height could have projectile—”

 _“Anymore.”_ Kenjirou interjects forcefully, slanting a scornful glance in their direction. He jerks his laptop from his bag and sets it on his chair’s mini table. “I don’t drink _anymore_. It’s coming up on finals and I can’t waste time being hungover.”

“Sure, sure,” Taichi says, eyes still glued to his screen. “But you should still come with us tonight.”

“I _just said_ —”

“—that you’ve got finals to study for, _we know_.” Konoha closes his eyes and tilts his head backwards, sagging into the couch. “Believe me, my organic chemistry final has been haunting my dreams since the semester started.” 

Kenjirou forgets sometimes that Konoha is pursuing a branch of medical science as well and is a year ahead of them. Taichi, meanwhile, hasn’t settled on a major yet and their second year is quickly coming to a midpoint. Kenjirou gets secondhand anxiety just _listening_ to Taichi debate the merits of various courses he wants to take. 

“Just come with us tonight,” Konoha implores. “A few of the guys from Sendai and Tokyo are going to be there and it’ll be fun to see them again. You can drink water the whole night if you want.”

Kenjirou sighs and fiddles with his pen. If pressed, he would say he enjoys university and his classes, but his second year is _destroying_ him. He’s up to his eyeballs in coursework and labs, and more of his assignments are coming back with subpar grades.

_(“Shirabu, only you would think anything less than ninety-five percent is a subpar grade. Do you know the last time I got a ninety-five? I think my advisor called me into her office to lecture me about cheating.”_

_“I hardly think they’d catch you cheating after the fact, Semi-san.”_

_“Hey!”)_

He didn’t realize how much volleyball alleviated his stress levels. He misses it, if he’s honest. There were a lot of dimensions to volleyball that he didn’t appreciate while he had the time.

The party last month was the last time he’s been out to do anything fun, though he’s not sure he considers heaving up a liter of alcohol _fun_. Even their hall’s resident gamer gets dragged away from his streaming channel and out to parties on a biweekly basis by his towering, messy-haired boyfriend. 

Taichi’s phone pings with a notification. His eyebrow and the corner of his mouth quirk upward simultaneously as he reads the message before his expression immediately returns to its usual uninterested disposition. On anyone else, the reaction would be unremarkable. On Taichi, it can only spell trouble.

“What is it?” Kenjirou asks.

“One of my study group members offered to do the final editing for our group paper,” Taichi says smoothly. 

Kenjirou snorts in disbelief. 

Konoha opens his eyes and lolls his head to the side to watch them. “Is that the girl from your film class?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me see your phone; I need her number before our biology lecture on Monday.”

Taichi hands over his phone. It’s a testament to how tired Kenjirou must be, because he doesn’t pursue the very obvious misdirection that just occurred. He turns his focus to his laptop and opens his textbook, and doesn’t pay any attention to the smirk exchanged between Taichi and Konoha as Konoha returns the phone.

—

The bar is a little nicer than the usual college dives that Konoha gravitates toward. There’s some lingering cigarette smoke in the air, but combined with the dark wood of the bar and the low light, it adds to the ambience. A small stage for musicians occupies the back corner of the bar. There’s definitely a lot more people here than Kenjirou was expecting, but everyone is talking at a normal or low level, which is a relief. He can’t stand the obnoxious decibels found at most university bars. 

Kenjirou had put up a fight in the spirit of being stubborn, but Taichi had seen through it in an instant and shoved him into his dorm room, telling him to “put on something _nice_ for once, Kenjirou, don’t embarrass me!”

Kenjirou has seen Taichi in a shitty leopard print T-shirt alongside Semi more than once, so he doesn’t see how anything in his closet will embarrass Taichi more than he’s already achieved on his own. 

_(“It’s_ fashion _, Shirabu. We can’t all be prim and proper brats like you.”)_

Kenjirou tugs his jacket off and tosses it in the booth before sliding in. It’s a nice corner booth, large and circular so everyone can talk and no one’s left awkwardly missing the other half of the table. Taichi does a jump-and-slide into the booth and bumps him further along the leather, flashing a grin as Kenjirou grumbles and gives him a shove. Akaashi, one of Konoha’s high school friends and Taichi’s literature classmates from last year, slides in on his other side. Konoha sits down beside Akaashi and tells the table at large that two others are coming.

Kenjirou is relieved that it’s Akaashi next to him. The guy is quiet and thoughtful and certainly was not a member of the “make Kenjirou leave the dorm the weekend before finals” club. Plus, he’ll be a good buffer from the energy that’s bound to rise as Taichi and Konoha get further into their drinks. The waitress sets down several glasses of water and takes their first round of orders.

“How did you get roped into this?” he asks Akaashi while Taichi and Konoha argue over the various types of yakitori on the menu. 

Akaashi shrugs. “My finals are all papers. Most of my research was conducted a few weeks ago, so I just need to finish the final edits and submit them. Konoha knows this, so I didn’t have a good excuse to avoid coming.” 

Kenjirou nods and tugs a glass of water toward him. Papers sound like a nice way to end the semester. Much better than lab reports or four-hour finals that have him waking up in a cold sweat twice a week.

“So why this bar?” Akaashi asks once the waitress has left. He takes a drink from his own glass of water. “This is vastly above your usual standard, Konoha. You’ve never agreed to come here when I offer.” 

Konoha grins. “Better drinks. I knew you guys wouldn’t agree to come out tonight if it there wasn’t a promise of decent alcohol.”

As if on cue, their waitress returns with a tray laden with said alcohol. Kenjirou has skipped this round—he _means_ it when he says he’s not interested in drinking right now—but toasts along with the rest of them. 

Conversation flows naturally; Kenjirou sinks into and allows himself to tune the rest of the bar out. It’s a Friday night, he’s among friends, and nothing needs to be accomplished tonight that can’t be done tomorrow.

His view of the stage in the back of the bar is mostly obstructed by the booth’s high walls, so the sudden strum of a guitar catches him off guard. Taichi grins at his startle as the chords start to swell in the room.

“Is that a live band?”

Akaashi nods. “I recognize them. They’re here pretty often. I think it’s a mix of college guys from this university and that public university another town over.”

“Is this a band you recognize, Taichi?” he asks. Taichi has the best view of the stage from his seat, but he shakes his head and blows a straw wrapper at Konoha.

Kenjirou tips his head to the side to better hear the music. The sound is definitely rock, but the band has selected pieces that fit in with the muted atmosphere of the bar. Any yelling occurring at their table is due entirely to the fault of the seated party. 

Kenjirou’s attention drifts as his companions maintain a steady conversation regarding the band and their own musical pursuits, and he finds himself losing track of time. Several songs start and end, each with their own gravitas and appeal. The main singer has an excellent voice, but it’s the voice of one of the backup singers that Kenjirou locks onto. It sounds vaguely familiar, and he’s trying hard to pinpoint where on earth he would have ever heard this band, but with how the voices weave and intertwine, it’s difficult to single out an individual line.

The current song—more upbeat than the ones previous—comes to an end and the audience looses a burst of applause. The lead singer laughs. There’s several muted happy exclamations; Kenjirou assumes he’s bowing and thanking those closer to the stage. Taichi glances at the stage and his knee starts bouncing.

“Okay, guys, we’re going to take a quick break and we’ll be back in fifteen.”

Kenjirou jolts. _That_ isn’t the voice of the lead. Not by a long shot. This particular voice evokes memories of long-winded lectures, begrudging smiles given behind water bottles, and one never-again-mentioned bus ride that had Kenjirou dozing off in the lap of someone who was most certainly _not_ Taichi.

Suddenly it’s very easy to pin down exactly why the backup singer’s voice sounded so familiar.

Taichi’s knee jackhammers hard enough to shake the table. If Kenjirou had any uncertainties that his friends didn’t know which band— _whose_ band—was playing tonight, they’re completely erased by the dead giveaway of Taichi’s manifestation of nerves. 

He turns to Taichi, ready to berate him for withholding _this_ particular bit of information, but the two guys Konoha mentioned earlier arrive with a generous amount of noise and the addition of a third individual. 

Konoha stands and pulls one of the guys into an embrace. “Bokuto! I didn’t know you’d be able to get away from training to join us tonight. Or did Kuroo and Kai manipulate your coaches into letting you skip?” He stands to the side to allow Bokuto to slide in next to Akaashi.

Kenjirou notes the relieved slump of Taichi’s shoulders as the newcomers introduce themselves and resolves to pursue the issue when he and Taichi have a moment alone. His so-called “best friend” isn’t getting out of this so easily. He stomps on Taichi’s foot under the table once for good measure and is rewarded with a wince and a glare.

“Manipulate is such a _strong_ word, Konoha-kun,” Kai lilts with a small smile. 

“But not inaccurate,” Konoha counters and takes their orders. Kuroo settles next to Bokuto and Kai beside Taichi while Konoha heads off to the bar to grab a round of drinks.

“Hey-hey, Akaashi!” Bokuto says. “I haven’t seen you in a while!” His white-and-gray hair, though curling around his face instead of spiked as usual, are already enough of a clue as to who he is, but his boisterous greeting confirms it. This is one of the aces that remained in the top five alongside Ushijima all those years.

Akaashi nods with a neutral “Bokuto-san” and finishes the remaining few sips in his glass, not removing his eyes from his drink. Bokuto watches his every move, and Kenjirou notes Kuroo’s eyes casually following Bokuto in turn. He ponders it briefly—he’s pretty sure Kuroo is involved with that gamer from his dorm, but he could be wrong. Kenjirou rarely concerns himself with anything beyond molecular structures and neurobiology these days.

“You missed the first half of the set from the band tonight,” Taichi says conversationally. Kenjirou debates stomping on his foot again for how offhand his comment sounds. He’s never trusting Taichi again.

Kai groans. “I know! I keep hearing about them everywhere I go, it feels like. Are they as good as everyone says?”

Konoha returns, tray in hand. “Better, actually. And this is just their first year playing together. Wait until you see the lineup they have for next year’s venues.” He distributes the drinks.

 _Since when does Konoha follow music so closely?_ Kenjirou wonders. He raises his drink to his lips—it’s not water, thanks to Taichi, who insisted on paying for Kenjirou’s drink because the thought of him not having any alcohol was too pitiful, apparently. Kenjirou refuses to financially aid in his own inebriation, if that’s what Taichi wants tonight.

 _(“You are_ such _a goody-two-shoes, Shirabu! Lighten up once in a while!”_

_“It’s hard to take your advice seriously when you’ve managed to puke twice after only three beers, Semi-san.”)_

Kuroo takes a swig from his own bottle. “What kind of music is it?”

“I think they call it indie rock. It sounds a little American, but not in a bad way, if that makes sense,” Konoha says.

“Everything does, these days,” Akaashi puts in. “I hope you’re all taking English classes.”

Bokuto groans. “There’s a lot more English speakers than I expected in professional volleyball! Every public event we go to involves English somehow.” He drains half his drink in one go; Kenjirou marvels at what can only be extreme practice or extreme stupidity. If some of Konoha’s stories are to be believed, it’s probably both. Bokuto slams the glass back onto the table and turns to Akaashi. “Akaashi! Your English is amazing. You could teach me!”

Never mind. It’s just extreme stupidity. 

The silence stretches between them as Akaashi’s gaze tracks slowly from Bokuto’s glass, up his arm, and finally settles on his face. Kuroo blatantly appraises both of them. Konoha and Kai have disregarded the awkwardness entirely and returned to their own conversation about the intersection of Japanese pop and American indie rock.

The look in Kuroo’s eye isn’t that of a rival; it’s more...concern. It’s well-hidden, almost entirely sealed behind a mask of boredom, but Kenjirou is trained to notice hints in people’s expressions that clue him into what they’re thinking. _Strange._ Akaashi doesn’t seem like the heartbreaker-type, but then, neither does Kenjirou.

“We’ll have to see, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says at last, running a finger along the rim of his refilled glass. Bokuto looks torn between excited-puppy and just-slapped. Kuroo’s eyebrows fly upward, but any comment he has remains between him and the drink he brings to his mouth.

“What do you think of the music, Kenjirou?” Konoha asks, surprising Kenjirou out of his observation. 

Taichi bumps him with an elbow. “Yes, Kenjirou, _do_ tell us.”

Kenjirou scowls at Taichi. No one around them grasps the hidden message, though Kuroo’s analyzing gaze is turned on Kenjirou now. _Fantastic._

“They’re pretty good,” Kenjirou says noncommittally. “How did you find out about them?”

Taichi brandishes his phone. “Yamagata and Tendou follow them closely. Tendou says they’re really good.” 

Kenjirou debates if the malicious pleasure he would get out of flicking Taichi’s forehead is worth the label of “petty.” He decides against it—barely. Any snark that he might deliver in response is drowned out by a burst of feedback from the speakers. 

“Sorry about that, folks!” It’s the lead singer speaking this time. Kenjirou hates himself for how much he’d rather it were someone else. “Thanks for waiting! We’ve got an awesome second half coming your way, so let’s get into it!”

The band jumps back into playing with renewed energy after their break. Kenjirou is grateful that he’s stuck where he can’t see the stage; the temptation to stare would be far too strong, and Taichi doesn’t need any more ammunition in his vast array of Kenjirou-related mockery.

_Is teasing really what I’m concerned about?_

Now that he knows exactly who’s on stage, it’s impossible to hear the voices as a whole. He’s completely tuned into the harmonizing in the background and barely pays attention to the lead. He makes it through most of the second half of the set, alternating between his drink and several glasses of water (he glares at Taichi once, _daring_ him to make the comment he knows is on his best friend’s tongue) before he finally pays the price.

Kenjirou is somewhat glad for the fortunate excuse that inevitably arises. He mutters, “Bathroom” and slides out from where Taichi and Kai have moved aside to let him get out of the booth. He feels Taichi’s eyes following him as he walks away.

He adheres to the edge of the room with short, quick strides, careful to keep his face on the path in front of him and on anything but the band. His peripheral vision is just enough to inform him that his journey goes unnoticed by a particular member of the band. The entry to the hall for the bathrooms is directly across from the stage in the opposing corner and he darts behind the entryway before his eyes can betray him fully. 

It’s harder to hear the band within the bathroom, which is a welcome relief. 

As he’s washing his hands, Kenjirou risks a glance in the mirror to see what evidence exists on his face of the tumult happening within his mind. The only visible tell is the slight hysteria in his eyes. 

Kenjirou laughs softly to himself and dries his hands a little longer and a little more violently than is necessary. “ _Fuck,_ ” he whispers, fingers shaking where they’re gripping the towel. 

_(“Such_ language, _Kenjirou-kun! You’re hardly the emotionless control tower you so desperately want to be!”_

_“Don’t call me that.”_

_“Is it so bad to show your feelings once in a while? It might relieve you of some of that stress you’re always carrying around.”_

_“Is that how it went for you, Semi-san?”)_

He closes his eyes and breathes once deeply through his nose before stepping back and nodding to himself in the mirror. He can do this. 

Kenjirou walks out the door and pauses on the threshold that leads back to the main room. It’s a perfect vantage point to watch the musicians on stage. They’ve just finished a song and everyone is clapping. Kenjirou stares at the carpet, _fixates_ on the ever-repeating pattern of fabric, and does not look up. 

“All right!” the lead singer says into the mic. “Just a couple more songs tonight, folks. You’re in for a treat on this next one. Take it away, Semi!”

Kenjirou freezes. _Move_ , he thinks desperately. 

The drummer sets a slower tempo and the bassist joins in. He needs to get back to the booth, avoid any temptation to look. 

_Move._

The lead singer adds his own electric guitar to the mix. 

_Move._

He does not move. He hears a slight intake of breath at the mic, and his self-control abandons him. Kenjirou looks up.

Right at Semi Eita. 

The extent of Kenjirou’s crush—how good it felt to argue with Semi and demand his full attention, the intensity Semi focused on setting and serves and training Kenjirou, the attempted repression of any and all thoughts of Semi these last few years—floods his senses, overwhelms him. He is so not over Semi. Did he even _start_ to get over Semi? _Can this even be called a crush?_

Fortunately, Semi doesn’t see the burning gaze fixed on him. He’s got his eyes closed, his guitar slung along his back, and both hands wrapped around the mic as he croons the lyrics into it. His hair is a little longer, still dyed, still just the right side of unruly. He might be a bit taller. Definitely taller than Kenjirou, no doubt. The ridiculous clothes he wore in high school have finally coalesced into a look that is a little dark, a little edgy, and fit him alarmingly well. 

His voice is incredible. Kenjirou doesn’t remember ever hearing him sing before. He never would have forgotten a voice like this.

_Oh, fuck._

Kenjirou remains rooted to the spot, leaning against the doorframe, for the duration of the song. He can’t feel his legs and his mind is one-hundred-and-ten percent dialed in on the musician at the mic. He is so fucked. 

Distantly, as the song comes to an end, a nagging feeling arises that he’s forgotten something. He turns the feeling over in his mind, uncertain where the anxiety is coming from. What can he possibly have forgotten in this moment?

The final chord fades. Semi opens his eyes, a faint smile at the corners of his mouth, and sweeps a look across the room before locking onto Kenjirou. His eyes widen and his lips part instantly. 

_That’s_ what he forgot. Of course. He’s hardly invisible when someone’s eyes are open. He’s pretty sure his expression mirrors Semi’s.

They stare at each other for a heartbeat longer before Kenjirou stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks quickly back to his table. Semi’s gaze burns on his shoulders so strongly that Kenjirou is surprised he doesn’t combust on the spot.

They’ve reorganized in the time Kenjirou was gone. Kuroo is still beside Bokuto, but Konoha and Kai have squished in next to Akaashi. They’re all watching something on one of their phones. Taichi is peering at the screen from an angle, but his position on Kai’s other side limits his view. He does a double-take as Kenjirou returns and reads him like a book. _Damn it._

Taichi slams back his drink, stands, and offers Kenjirou one of the shots from the table. Kenjirou considers it for a moment before downing it and grimacing at the taste. Taichi grips him by the elbow and steers him away from the table and into a slightly secluded alcove. It’s not secluded enough to block Kenjirou’s view of the band, however; that one look was all it took to break Kenjirou’s resolve entirely, and now he can’t stop glancing at Semi every few seconds. Semi is focused on the chords of this final song, but Kenjirou can tell his attention is divided. 

Taichi follows his line of sight and presses his lips together. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Kenjirou tears his attention from the stage. “Did you know?”

Taichi has always lasted the longest under Kenjirou’s intense gaze. He scrutinizes Kenjirou for a few seconds before replying, “I think you know the answer to that.”

Kenjirou clicks his tongue in irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would you have come if I did?”

Kenjirou scrubs a hand through his hair and risks another glance at the band. Semi is watching him from beneath knotted brows. He swallows and doesn’t look away until Semi looks back at his guitar. “I don’t know.”

Taichi hums contemplatively. “What happened between you two? I honestly expected you to get your shit together before he graduated.”

“Well, we didn’t!” Kenjirou shouts. His voice cracks on the last syllable. The bar is loud enough that the sound is swallowed up without issue. Taichi watches him intently.

He shrugs helplessly and feels, for a brief moment, a burning at the corners of his eyes. He blinks hard. “It was my fault. He came up to me...just the once. It was right after the graduation ceremony.” 

Kenjirou pauses as the memory threatens to constrict his throat. He tamps it down and swallows again. “I was grabbing some paperwork from the gym. He came in to return one of the gym keys. He...confessed, I guess. I didn’t respond...well. It was right after all of that garbage with my family.” Taichi nods. He knows the story. “I said some awful things to him. It wasn’t good. We haven’t talked since then. I haven’t _seen_ him since that day. Until now.”

And his treacherous eyes betray him yet again. He’s sure the desperation is visible on his face to anyone who’s looking for it. And Taichi is rather astute.

Taichi sticks his hands in his pockets and looks at the band as well. Looks at Semi. “Are things different now?”

“How do you mean?”

“Are you comfortable with who you are? If he asked again, what would you say?”

Kenjirou sighs through his nose. “To the first? Yes. Fuck anyone who tries to tell me who I should be.”

Taichi picks up on the hesitation after the statement, but doesn’t move his gaze. “And the second?” he prompts.

The band enters what Kenjirou thinks is the last verse of the song. The layers of instrumentals strip away until it’s just a few chords from Semi’s guitar and the lead’s voice. “I’m not sure,” he says at last. “Is there any point in hoping for something that I did a fabulous job of stomping out?”

The song ends. Semi’s eyes find Kenjirou’s almost immediately. 

“That isn’t the face of a guy who’s lost interest in you, Kenjirou.” 

Kenjirou turns to glare at Taichi. The last thing he needs right now is to get his hopes up. The torment of the days after Semi’s confession were almost unbearable.

“You should at least talk to him,” Taichi says. He steps a little closer as the bar swells in volume and movement now that the band has finished their set. “Get some closure for both of you.”

Kenjirou darts a glance at the stage, but everyone moving around has obscured it—and the band—from view. 

“What makes you think he wants to talk to me?” Kenjirou snaps, a little more wounded than he would have preferred.

Taichi looks past him. “I’ve just got a feeling.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“I see that foul mouth hasn’t improved with time, Shirabu.”

Kenjirou freezes. Taichi gives him the smallest of smiles, warm and encouraging and so at odds with his typical smirks and mockery of Kenjirou at every opportunity. 

He steps around Kenjirou and bows slightly. “You guys sounded great, Semi-san.”

Semi laughs. “Thanks, Taichi. This was a last-minute booking, but the venue is surprisingly fun to play. What brings you guys here?”

“We both study at the nearby university and finals are nearly upon us.” Semi laughs again in commiseration. “There’s a few guys from some of the old teams here, actually. Come say hi before you go.”

And with that, Taichi ditches Kenjirou like the caring, considerate, absolute jerk he is. 

Kenjirou still hasn’t pivoted to face Semi, but Semi solves that problem for him. He steps around Kenjirou and takes up the spot that Taichi was occupying, leaning just a bit on the edge of the alcove. Kenjirou forces himself to meet Semi’s gaze.

“Hey, Shirabu,” he says softly. 

Kenjirou is sure it’s obvious that his heart is pounding through his chest. “Hello, Semi-san.”

Semi studies him for a long moment. Whatever he sees must convince him that further conversation isn’t inadvisable. He tilts his head toward the stage. “What did you think of the music?” 

His voice rasps slightly after the conclusion of the full two-hour set. Being this close to him is infinitely more electrifying than their prolonged eye contact across a room. Kenjirou is so done for.

“I didn’t know you sang.”

Semi grins. “It’s not really something I could do in the Shiratorizawa dorms, is it? With how much we all focused on volleyball, it felt like practicing anything other than volleyball would be considered sacrilegious.”

Kenjirou nods. He casts around for something else to say, but he’s completely thrown off. Everything that comes to mind seems entirely too stupid or too off-limits to say. A survey of the bar brings no new ideas either. He sets his jaw and meets Semi’s eyes.

The remnant of Semi’s smile from earlier fades as he licks his lips. “Listen, Shirabu—”

Whatever he was about to say is cut off by an explosive, “Semi?? As in Semi Eita?!”

Semi turns, a “What the _fu_ —” spilling from his mouth before he’s jumped on by Bokuto. At least, Kenjirou is pretty sure it’s Bokuto. He’s also pretty sure that was not the most polite greeting of the wide variety of options to choose from. He steps out of the casualty zone.

Taichi and Akaashi appear on either side of Kenjirou, their coats on and Kenjirou’s dangling from Taichi’s fist. “I’m sorry,” Akaashi says, bowing deeply to Semi. “Please excuse him. We’ve had this conversation before.”

Kenjirou has to stifle the urge to laugh. The monotone and speed of Akaashi’s apology suggest this is a regular occurrence. The poor guy.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Semi says, extricating himself from what looks like a painful embrace. “Hi, Bokuto. Long time, no see.” 

“There’s a club nearby that some of the guys want to check out!” Bokuto crows. “Do you want to come??”

Kuroo and Kai show up on Akaashi’s other side. “‘Some of the guys’ being Bokuto and Konoha,” Kuroo informs Semi. “Must be a Fukurodani thing.”

Akaashi shakes his head fervently.

“How do you two know each other?” Kai asks as Konoha comes over from settling their tab. Thank goodness for Venmo.

“A training camp a while back, I think,” Semi answers. “It was in Tokyo. I’m pretty sure I sucked.”

“Shocker,” Kenjirou mutters, force of habit overtaking present nerves. 

Semi’s head swivels to fasten a glare on him, but there’s no heat behind it. It softens into something thoughtful. Kenjirou’s heartbeat attempts a double-time tempo. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“Sure,” Semi says after a moment’s thought. “Just let me grab my stuff and say goodbye to my bandmates.”

Bokuto cheers and gets shushed by Akaashi and Kuroo simultaneously. Synchronized shushing—fascinating. Kenjirou wonders how much impolite shit Bokuto puts his friends through. Likely too much.

It’s only a matter of a few minutes before they’re out the door and walking in the direction of this club that has Bokuto and Konoha hyped up and leading the way. Taichi and Kai are strolling along behind them at the unhurried pace that tall people can always use no matter what speed everyone else is going. Kuroo had grabbed Akaashi’s arm and held him back for a moment when they left the bar, so Kenjirou and Semi are left to walk together. Kenjirou wonders if this too is planned. 

Kenjirou sneaks a glance over his shoulder at where Kuroo and Akaashi are lagging behind. They look too intensely involved in their own conversation for any actions on their part to be contributors to whatever dance Kenjirou and Semi are being forced to engage in, but Kenjirou has been fooled before.

“So,” Semi says. His guitar is strapped across one shoulder and his backpack across the opposite. “Do you know all of these guys?”

“Hardly,” Kenjirou snorts. Walking has given him an avenue to expend some of his nervous energy, so talking is easier than it was in the dim light of the bar. “I was planning to spend the night studying until Taichi dragged me out.”

“Some things never change, huh?” Semi asks. Kenjirou looks at him before he can stop himself. “The studying,” he clarifies.

“Oh.” Kenjirou walks a few paces before he answers. “Some things don’t, I suppose.” Another several steps prompt him to be bolder. “Some do.”

It’s Semi’s turn to watch Kenjirou, but Kenjirou keeps his eyes fixed ahead. “Taichi and I go to the same university. We met Konoha there our freshman year. I think he took pity on how stupid we were and decided to pass on his upperclassman knowledge. It’s been...enlightening.”

“What does _that_ mean?” Semi asks. 

“We go out drinking. Often.” 

“Abuse of upperclassman powers,” Semi mutters.

“I have a fairly distinct memory of another upperclassman and some alcohol-related abuse—”

“All right! I get it!” Semi growls, but he’s smiling.

Kenjirou thinks about continuing the trend of being bold while they’re still out here in the cool night air, but Konoha’s yell of “This is the one!” halts any further consideration.

They all pile in through the doorway and pause. Kai says dryly, “ _This_ is what I would call a dive.”

It is indeed a dive. It’s all people their age, but Kenjirou can tell that his clothes will be saturated with the greasy bar smell within minutes of standing inside the building. Gross. 

“You Tokyo folk need to learn to give places like this a chance,” Bokuto says earnestly.

“Bokuto,” Kuroo states. “ _You’re_ from Tokyo.”

“My point stands.”

“The music is weirdly decent, though,” Kai offers. Konoha grins and points at him like, this guy gets it.

Kenjirou is pretty sure being diplomatic is Kai’s top skill.

Beside Kenjirou, Akaashi looks slightly pale. Maybe the bar smell doesn’t agree with him. “Are you okay?” he asks lowly.

Akaashi nods. “I just need to sit for a moment.”

Bokuto starts toward Akaashi with a look of concern, but Kuroo grabs his wrist and yanks him toward the dance floor. “Oh no. You brought us here, you’re the first one to dance,” he says. “Come on, Kai, Konoha!” The other two follow them out to the lit-up floor and pounding music.

Kenjirou and Taichi exchange matching looks of _“What the hell?”_

Semi watches them all go and sighs. “If we’re staying here for more than ten minutes, I’m going to need a drink. What do you guys want?”

Akaashi passes, but Taichi and Kenjirou both name their requests. Semi passes them his bag, guitar, and coat, with the orders to “cover my case with my coat or something, and do not let it out of your sight!”

Kenjirou and Taichi escort Akaashi to a table well away from the dance floor. As Kenjirou arranges Semi’s gear as best he can and resolves to keep a weathered eye out for any potential thieves, Taichi sits down next to Akaashi. “So,” he says, because tonight’s Taichi can’t mind his damn business and he’s always been too logical for his own good, “what’s the deal with you and Bokuto?”

Akaashi sighs. “It’s nothing.”

“Kuroo seems to think it’s something,” Kenjirou supplies, events slowly starting to click into place.

Akaashi covers his eyes with a hand. “Kuroo is too nosy for his own good.”

Kenjirou and Taichi are friends for many reasons, and one of them is their ability to remain impassive for extensive lengths of time. Fortunately, Akaashi seems intelligent enough to know when to give in. It’s also possible that he’s tired of internalizing whatever it is he’s mulling over. 

“It’s just—Bokuto-san is...a challenge.” He massages the index and middle finger of one hand with the other. Kenjirou recognizes the nervous-setter tendency from his own habits. 

Semi returns with their drinks and sets them in front of their respective owners, with a glass of water for Akaashi. He nods his thanks, but doesn’t pause now that he’s starting speaking.

“When we were in school, our roles were defined. His immaturity was odd, but since I experienced it every day, I adjusted. His moods were understandable once I began to comprehend his passion for volleyball. Once we graduated, though, the context for our relationship...disappeared.” Akaashi takes a drink. Semi looks weirdly over-invested in his story. 

“We pursued different routes after high school, which would have been fine, but we keep...encountering one another. The problem isn’t the encounter. The problem is that I’ve seen Bokuto with different people, and his maturity is vastly more developed. When he sees me, it’s as if he regresses. The maturity disappears and it’s high school all over again. We’ve tried dating before. Multiple times. Kuroo was frustrated with me for that, with some things tonight, because it looks like I’m leading Bokuto on. He isn’t wrong, but—” Akaashi cuts himself off, looking frustrated and like he wishes his water was something far stronger.

“But you both need to continue to grow into the people you can be,” Semi finishes gently. “Even if you’re together. _Especially_ if you’re together.”

Akaashi nods. Kenjirou can’t stop staring at Semi. Semi doesn’t notice, because he cares too strongly and is fully invested in Akaashi right now.

“Have you told him?”

“Not in so many words. I don’t want it to sound like I’m pinning all the blame on him.”

Semi shrugs and takes a sip of his own drink. “I’m sure you’ve changed quite a lot since high school as well. We’re different people in high school. Different fears, worse communication skills.”

Taichi snorts. “When did you become the levelheaded, all-knowing punk rocker?”

Semi flicks an ice cube at Taichi’s nose. “Indie rock, darling _kouhai_. Someone needs to listen to more of both if you can’t identify the difference. It’ll teach you all the answers to life.”

He turns back to Akaashi. “It’s your call. I don’t know the full story, obviously, and I don’t really want to, but it sounds like you owe it to yourselves to have an honest conversation where you both feel heard at the end of it.”

Kenjirou knows he meant the advice for Akaashi, but he can’t stop turning the last part over and over in his mind. Is Semi only talking about Akaashi and Bokuto?

Akaashi’s fingertips turn white where they’re braced on his glass. He nods.

They drink in silence for a while, occasionally breaking it to mock some of the dance moves happening on the floor, or, in the case of Kuroo and Bokuto attempting some tandem-worm move, snort beer all over the table. Taichi mops at his nose with a napkin, hiccuping through the tears streaming down his face.

The song comes to an end and Bokuto marches toward their table with a purpose. 

Semi turns to Kenjirou and the red-eyed Taichi. “I’m bored. Let’s dance.”

Kenjirou coughs over a laugh at the awful subtlety that just occurred, but the look in Bokuto’s eyes has him scrambling to finish his drink and follow Semi out to the dance floor. Taichi peels off along the way, mumbling something about the bathroom. With how much his nose is still running, Kenjirou actually believes him this time.

They reach the floor, the heavy beat seeping into Kenjirou’s bones. He turns to face Semi. 

“Do you know how to dance?” Semi yells over the music. His feet are already moving along with the beat, an uncomplicated move that his body follows in a serpentine way.

“Take a wild guess,” Kenjirou shouts back. He’s nowhere near drunk, but their drinks just before were strong, a slight buzz is starting, and being around Semi is energizing. He supposes he can be honest on a dance floor.

Semi grins, wild and bright. “I’ll teach you.”

And he does. He teaches Kenjirou moves that look complicated but make him feel like he actually knows what he’s doing. He teaches him incredibly stupid moves that make them buckle in laughter at how idiotic they both look. Kenjirou glances over at their table a couple times to make sure someone is monitoring Semi’s equipment and finds Akaashi and Bokuto with their heads together, sealed off from the rest of the word. 

The songs shift to something slower. Semi gasps a laugh. “One more,” he says. Kenjirou is sure they both flash back to volleyball, the desperate cries of “One more!” filling the gymnasium. It’s not a bad memory.

“One more what?”

“One more dance,” Semi says. “Then I need a glass of water or something.” He listens to the song for a moment before settling something in his mind. “You need a different move for this type of song.”

He teaches Kenjirou a few different steps and what to do with his arms before stepping in close. Kenjirou’s mouth goes dry. “What—”

Semi’s eyes won’t leave Kenjirou’s. “It looks better,” he murmurs, “when you’re close to another person.” He mirrors Kenjirou with his own steps. Their hands glance off one another every so often as they dance. Kenjirou stares back and tries not to forget the dance moves he was just taught.

The tension stretches and stretches as the song builds and Kenjirou isn’t sure which one of them is going to break first. He’s sure their faces are far closer than they were at the beginning of the song. 

_Go on,_ he thinks desperately. 

A smash of chords announces the start of a new song. Semi exhales and steps back. “Nice work,” he says, glancing away and looking far more distant than he did thirty seconds ago. “Let’s find something to drink.”

Akaashi and Bokuto are nowhere to be found when they get back to the table, but Konaha and Kai are sitting at the table chatting over their drinks. Kai points back at the dance floor without looking. Kenjirou turns and spots Bokuto and Akaashi slow-dancing in the middle of the floor. Well, then.

Semi pours himself and Kenjirou a glass of water from a pitcher on the table and steps back to rest his elbow on one of the taller tables behind them. Kenjirou down the entire glass in an attempt to distract himself from...whatever just happened between them on the floor.

“Shit.” Semi is holding his phone out, the dim blue glow illuminating his face in the dark bar. Kenjirou moves closer so they don’t have to shout. “It’s really late. I need to think about getting home.”

“You could come back to my university,” Kenjirou blurts. Semi startles and glances at him. “I have a single. And a spare futon. You can crash there, if you want.” 

If Semi walks out right now, tonight, Kenjirou worries he’ll walk right out of his life, too. He hasn’t made up his mind what he’s going to do yet, but he needs to keep Semi close for as long as he can.

Semi breathes in, holds it, stares at Kenjirou. Kenjirou holds his gaze, still lit up by the light of his phone that he forgot to lower from his face. “Is that…” Semi begins, considers, restarts, “That is—are you sure?”

Kenjirou has been monitoring how much they’ve been drinking, and they’re both definitely sober. This is a rational— _as rational as a 2am decision can be_ —decision. He nods and grabs his coat.

Semi stares at him for a beat longer. “Okay,” he says finally, more to himself than to Kenjirou. He yanks on his coat and snags his guitar case and backpack from their table. “Lead the way.”

They wave goodbye to Konoha and Kai. Taichi and Kuroo are still out on the dance floor, gigantic figures made all the more imposing by their ridiculous dance moves. Kenjirou is pretty sure Bokuto and Akaashi are still slow-dancing in the midst of the group, despite the current song being anything but slow-dance appropriate. 

The brisk night air is a pleasant shock and clears Kenjirou’s head of the haze of the last few hours. It’s only so helpful, though; Semi is still consuming his thoughts, so he can’t fault any alcohol or music for that.

They’re within walking distance of the university campus; Kenjirou takes the lead and Semi matches his quick pace without issue. Everything Kenjirou can think to talk about vanishes in a fluttering of nerves. Each step draws them closer to his dorm, and Kenjirou has no idea what he’s going to do when they finally get there.

Semi looks his way a couple times, but makes no attempt at conversation.

He stands quietly to the side when Kenjirou unlocks the main entry to the building with his key fob. His presence behind Kenjirou as they ascend the few flights to his floor has its own gravity, and Kenjirou has to stop himself from turning and stepping into Semi’s space while they’re still in the stairwell.

They reach his room without incident. Kenjirou unlocks the door, pushes it inward, and moves to the side to allow Semi entrance.

Kenjirou shuts the door behind Semi, who has paused to survey Kenjirou’s room. His backpack is still on his shoulders and his guitar case dangles loosely from his fingertips. Kenjirou takes the opportunity to quell the slight hysteria that arises; Semi is in his room, standing among the piles of worn university sweatshirts and stacks of dog-eared medical textbooks. He looks larger than life, somehow completely out of place and yet utterly fundamental.

Semi exhales quietly and pivots to face Kenjirou. His eyebrows quirk up at whatever it is he sees on Kenjirou’s face. He opens his mouth, shuts it, then mumbles, “I should, ah—” He tugs at his coat. The smell of the bar wafts off both of them.

“Right!” Kenjirou snaps back to reality and wrinkles his nose. He’s dying to get away from the cloying scent of the bar now that Semi made him aware of it. “The bathroom is just through that door” —he points to a door in the back corner of the room— “and feel free to shower. Do you need anything to sleep in?”

Semi rubs his neck and looks away as he sets down his backpack and case by the door. “If you’ve got something. I wasn’t planning on being out tonight. Though I always carry a toothbrush after some interesting places the band has crashed.” He makes a face at some memory. Kenjirou refrains from asking.

Kenjirou digs in his closet and resurfaces with a pair of sleep pants that are way too big for him—(“you’ll grow into them, Kenjirou!” “ _Obaasaaan_ ”)—and a worn, oversized long-sleeve tee. 

He hands over the clothes to Semi, who takes them and grimaces. “How big do you think I _am_ , Shirabu?” He holds the pants out before him as reinforcement. 

Shirabu bites the inside of his cheek to avoid snickering. They are enormous, and Semi really only overtakes Shirabu in height rather than width. “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he quips. “Now hurry up. I don’t want my room smelling like that _disgusting_ club.” 

“Decades-old grease isn’t your cologne of choice?” Semi teases, but heads toward the bathroom.

Kenjirou throws a balled-up plastic grocery bag after him. “Put them in here when you’re done. I’ll add mine and we can do laundry tomorrow.”

Semi catches it as it bounces off his shoulder and shuts the door behind him.

The moment the shower starts, Kenjirou sags down onto the floor (no way is he coming near his bedsheets while reeking like the bar) and puts his head in his hands. What was he _thinking?_

 _It’s fine. I’m fine._ He can make it through this night. He’ll be a perfectly cordial host and make sure Semi has the space he needs and his clothes get laundered, and he’ll live with the decisions he’s made. 

He’s still repeating that last part to himself when the water turns off and Semi exits the bathroom. Kenjirou walks past him to take his turn and does not notice the way that the sleeves of the shirt drape past Semi’s hands and how, despite being knotted as tightly as they’ll go, the pants still ride far too low on Semi’s hips.

Kenjirou debates drowning himself with the shower water, but decides the waste of water would be too great. _Lie in the bed you’ve made._

He reenters the bedroom to find that Semi has turned off all the lights except for the lamp on his nightstand and is sitting cross-legged on the foot of his bed. “It hurts my eyes this late,” he answers to Kenjirou’s questioning gaze. “And I don’t know where you want me to sleep.” He shakes out the sleeves of his shirt and sets to work folding them up to his forearms.

Fine. Good. Kenjirou can deal with this development, can deal with the way the soft glow of the light illuminates Semi’s face and how the shadows cast his profile in stronger relief, can deal with Semi _sitting on his bed_ —

He clears his throat and sinks down across from Semi, tucked safely against the headboard and the wall. Semi turns to face him and rests his elbows on his knees. There’s over a foot of space between them, but it feels like Semi is radiating heat. Kenjirou draws his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. If he props his cheek on his knees, he can keep most of his expression hidden from Semi.

“I can—” Kenjirou coughs, trying to unstick his throat “—get the futon out, if you like. It’s pretty late.”

Semi watches him for a long moment. “This is fine for now,” he says. “If it’s all right with you.”

Kenjirou nods.

They engage in this weird standoff for a few minutes where Semi doesn’t break eye contact with the top of Kenjirou’s head and Kenjirou resolutely ensures the top of his head is all Semi can see. 

Semi finally releases an annoyed grunt that is so nostalgic that Kenjirou picks his head up to quirk a brow at him. He presses his fingers together in an old stretch that Kenjirou knows is his preferred release of tension. “Can I ask you something?”

Kenjirou nods again. He moves so he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed. His chest is so, so tight.

Semi wets his lips in a repeat of earlier at the bar. It’s no less captivating this time around. “Are you in a different place now than you were when I graduated?”

“Yes,” Kenjirou says. 

Semi takes this and considers it for a long while. “Will you be in a place someday,” he says slowly, “where you would be okay with me asking my question again?”

 _Now,_ Kenjirou thinks. _Right now._ But he owes Semi an explanation first.

“The day you confessed to me was terrifying, Semi-san.” Semi starts to nod in understanding, but Kenjirou holds up a hand. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Semi looks puzzled. He inhales like he’s going to say something, and then appears to think better of it. 

And with Semi sitting there, patient and waiting, Kenjirou decides to heed what Taichi said earlier. 

“There was an incident at my house the day before. Some of my dad’s extended family was in town for a festival and they were staying with us. One of my cousins was snooping around in my room and found something—a magazine, maybe, I don’t even know what it was—and told everyone. I was out to my mom at that point. That was it. No one else.”

Kenjirou takes a moment to breathe as the day washes over him, but finds the words are harder to get out. Semi is watching him, his brows furrowed and his eyes wide. He scoots closer so their knees are almost touching. “Shirabu,” he says so softly. “ _Kenjirou._ You don’t need to tell me if it’s too much.”

Kenjirou concentrates on where Semi’s hands are resting against his ankles, elbows still braced on his knees. He doesn’t look up, but takes a deep breath and interlaces his fingers with Semi’s. Semi’s fingers tighten against his and his thumb starts stroking along Kenjirou’s index finger.

“No one really reacted at first, and I thought it was just going to blow over without too much fuss. Later that night, though...two of my older cousins snuck into my room and told me just what they thought of who I was. What they would do to me. What they would do to anyone I ever started dating.” Semi’s thumb stills. “I almost wish they would have just beat me up and left it at that. I could have handled that. But their words...their words were all I could hear when you confessed. 

“And I couldn’t do that. Not to you, Eita. So I said those awful things and left as fast as I could and never reached out all these years.”

A splash of something hot hits Kenjirou’s hand and he realizes tears are dripping off his chin. He swipes at them with one hand, but Eita’s other hand that isn’t still laced with his grabs his wrist and stops him. 

Kenjirou closes his eyes as Eita wipes away the saltwater on his face with gentle precision. He keeps them closed as Eita weaves his fingers slowly through Kenjirou’s hair and stops when his palm is pressed against Kenjirou’s cheek. He leans until their foreheads are touching and breathes quietly, “I’m so sorry, Kenjirou.”

Kenjirou exhales a shaky breath.

They stay like that for a long moment, the quiet of the night encompassing them. 

“Do you still hear what they said?” Eita asks.

“Sometimes.” Kenjirou swallows. “Less and less these days. Growing up helped. Getting out of Sendai helped a lot. I’m learning to talk to people about it.”

He’s babbling at this point. He says as much.

Eita laughs quietly. “I have missed your voice, Kenjirou.”

“If I had known your voice sounded like tonight in high school, I would be saying the same.”

Eita laughs harder. He settles after a moment. “There are so many things about you that I missed. I didn’t know about them at all during high school. It wasn’t until I went off to university and found myself expecting a rude response to every shitty question I asked that I realized I expected you in every part of life.”

Kenjirou snorts. “I sound like a real catch.”

“I need someone who can both match and oppose my temper. Someone who cares enough to see what’s going on underneath and meet me where I’m at.” Eita is ridiculously genuine, and if Kenjirou weren’t melting at every word, he’d mock him mercilessly for it.

“I shouldn’t have said no,” Kenjirou says abruptly. Eita goes motionless. “And I wasted three years because of my fear. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Kenjirou opens his eyes and finds that Eita is looking back at him, eyes dark and tender. 

“Ask your question again,” Kenjirou whispers.

A smile starts at the corner of Eita’s mouth. “Shirabu Kenjirou,” he murmurs, “I am in love with you. Do you accept my confession?”

“Yes,” Kenjirou gasps and presses his lips against Eita’s. 

It’s infinitely better than Kenjirou imagined. Eita kisses the way he argues, which Kenjirou supposes may hold true for him. There are moments of fleeting, ghosting kisses that crescendo into bruising, popping kisses that leave Kenjirou’s lips red and swollen before retreating. 

Eita drops Kenjirou’s hand and curls his fingers into the hair at the nap of Kenjirou’s neck. He presses kisses deeply into Kenjirou’s open mouth, sucking on his bottom lip as he withdraws before diving in again. 

It’s overwhelming in the best way. 

When they finally break apart, they’re lying back against the pillows and Kenjirou is stretched out half on top of Eita. 

“Do you still think you’ll be needing the futon tonight?” Kenjirou asks breathlessly, propping himself up on an elbow as he hovers over Eita.

Eita grins in his usual crazed manner. “I’m starting to think the pajamas were unnecessary as well.”

Kenjirou laughs and is quickly hushed by Eita surging up to meet him. One of them reaches to turn off the light, and the world fades away to touch and sound.

—

  
Kenjirou awakens to entirely too much sunlight and Eita’s arm keeping Kenjirou pressed against him. Eita really does generate heat like a furnace. It’s a good thing they’re coming up on the colder months.

He turns in Eita’s arms and finds him awake. “Morning,” Kenjirou says, his voice still thick with sleep. He yawns once and curls further into Eita’s warmth.

“Morning,” Eita rumbles. Kenjirou can feel it in Eita’s chest and nearly laughs at the drop in pitch. 

“Maybe you should try some morning performances, if your voice sounds like that,” Kenjirou says. 

Eita actually looks like he’s considering how to make that happen, the dork. Kenjirou punches him lightly in the shoulder, rolls to look at the clock, and groans. “Ugh. I really need to take today to study.”

Eita shrugs one shoulder and pulls his arm tighter around Kenjirou. “Fine with me. My classes ended last week, so I could use this time to get some songwriting done.”

“You write the songs?” Kenjirou can’t smother the surprise in his voice or expression.

“Surprised my Japanese is that good with my awful grades?” Eita teases. “Yeah, I do.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Well,” Eita says, eyes shining as they meet Kenjirou’s like the sap he is, “we’ve got time on our side.”

Kenjirou smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched s3 the other day and I forgot how much I loved this ship. This was written while listening to The Strokes and Ludovico Einaudi (both weirdly fitting?). Thanks for reading!


End file.
